


Strawmen

by Squidink



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cybertron, Decepticons being Decepticons, Gen, Pre-Canon, Prowl being Prowl, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-22
Updated: 2008-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They couldn't see the bigger picture, the long-term ramifications of every act.  They weren't programmed to make the tough calls.  They just couldn’t take it like Prowl could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawmen

**Author's Note:**

> "Status quo, you know, is Latin for 'the mess we're in'." - Ronald Reagan

"Decepticons took the twelfth sector, sniffed out the stock. There are still 'bots in there, sir."

Prowl leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His optics scanned the presented information coolly, probabilities and scenarios and long-term/short-term postulations flying rapid-fire through his mind.  No doubt the common frequencies had been cracked – likely enough if the Decepticons already knew about the hidden stockpile.  Couldn't coordinate with trapped soldiers without risk of further security breaches; passcodes will have to be changed, later.

Prowl glanced aside at the mech at the next terminal.  “How many?” The pneumatic door hissed open, and Jazz strolled in, mouth set in an unaccustomed frown.

“Four, sir.”

“Hm.” Their based forces were outnumbered and outgunned, frankly; even Prowl’s unit didn’t have the bodies to mount a rescue.  There was easily a whole Decepticon strike team assembled.  The bunker had thicker walls than the standard; all stockpile sites were veritable miniature fortresses.  And this was a large one.  Perhaps it could hold out, if those soldiers caught within were willing to seal the door permanently.  It would take the Decepticons weeks to get through, if they didn’t have acid or a gestalt at their disposal.  They wouldn’t want a drawn out conflict, with Prime on a few sectors over.  Temporary solution, useless if the Decepticons didn't move, discarded as unrealistic.

"If we could get one'a my 'bots in there…" Jazz said, leaning over the back of Prowl’s chair. 

The plan had already been contemplated and rejected as unfeasible by the time Jazz’s voice trailed off.  Dangerous to risk any of their special operations teams.  Few good mechs in that vital service, and none by any means expendable for superfluous recoveries; those trapped within the bunker were just soldiers, after all, and deemed expendable units.   The energon, however, could not be left to fall into enemy hands.  The same machinations were no doubt going through Jazz's processor, expert as he in worst case scenarios and the standard last resort protocols.

It was useful, to have him at hand, from time to time, with his real-time field experience; not applicable for now.  Though well-versed in deadlocks and counter maneuvers, Jazz's specialty didn't carry any significant weight in this particular tactical situation.  His input was just white noise; Prowl thought it better to order him to silence.  Discarded.  Friction – and the public perception thereof – in the chain of command deemed unacceptable.

"Too risky," Prowl murmured to humor his fellow officer, his mind elsewhere, still working.  The room went silent as other ’bot’s strained to hear.

"Pull the 'Cons off with a big enough distraction—"

Prowl's mouth twitched. "Impractical.  We don't possess the numbers to draw away a large enough portion of the enemy."

"Old tunnels?"

Consideration. "Negative.  Unstable.  Too many variables to risk."

"Air support?"

Prowl paused, checking his memory banks again.  No flight-based alternate modes in his immediate command.  None near enough to matter, and all too valuable to risk.  Jazz already knew that. A flash of irritation.  "Negative."

Jazz shifted again, glanced around, ill at ease.  Doubtlessly coming to the same conclusion as Prowl had, from the start.  It was a mental shift, to make these calls; to exhaust all potential tactics first, as standard procedure dictated, even if they all knew the most expedient and logical solution.  There were limited approaches; the cost-benefit ratios.  It was perhaps unexpected, but they were not quite unprepared. 

The Cybertronians trapped within were all expendable units.  The energon was not.

Running out of options.

A rolling tap moved along the back of his chair, Jazz's fingertips making restless rhythms in the dead metal.  He was edgy, awkward with the calculated situation at hand, with the words 'collateral' and 'nonessential'.  It likely did not often come up in his own personal command.  He was close to his core squad, and the common troops; such was vital to his function, and his emotional state of being.  Of course he would have to be socially inclined to observe his fellows – one among them despite his rank – gathering information with a genial smirk and friendly, easy-going manner.  He couldn't hazard the damage the camaraderie with vocalizing the final logical step.  He couldn't risk the inevitable backlash of issuing such a command.

Prowl was not moved by such concerns.  He harbored no illusions with his popularity: he was not well-liked.  It was unimportant to his post that he be so, and thus he had never troubled himself with the social networking of his fellow Autobots.  Prowl could take the fall without undue negative repercussions to his performance.  His operations often ended in such, a fact not lost on his fellows.  Emotional impact was at a minimum in his mental list of concerns; it was always necessity before a luxury.

Prowl examined the circumstances, the final call, once more, viewing it from all realistic angles.  Nodded to himself, formulated his plans accordingly.  It was the only reasonable course of action.

Almost hesitantly, Jazz asked, "Prowl?"  Confirming what they both already knew.

A flash of irritation, quickly discarded as self-indulgent.  Reminded himself of their functions, of his own.  Emotional reactions were a hindrance to effective command.  "Blow it."

The slightest exhalation of relief, the smallest release of tension, and Jazz slid back from Prowl again, voice lifting slightly.  Almost apologetically, "I'm not sure if—"

"If you have a better proposition, I suggest you put it forward now." He was already opening a radio channel.  Prowl looked up at Jazz as he sent his false reassurances, ignoring the stuttering flow of thanks thereafter.  The Decepticons stirred on the satellite-fed map before them, moving forward eagerly, grown bold with the false promise of a foolhardy rescue mission.

"But there're mechs in there," Jazz continued stubbornly, arguing for the sake of face; another flicker of irritation at the delay; the feeling easily set aside.  Such self-serving sentiments would interfere with the command balance between them.  Prowl could be deal with it later.

"I have not heard a plan, Jazz." The long distance connection closed.  Incendiary devices had already been installed, as a precaution, in every stockpile bunker; nothing too large or noticeable was required, with flammable material so near at hand.  It was standard procedure.  They had _all_ agreed, from the beginning.

Better to lose the resources then to let it fall into enemy hands. Better to burn their bridges rather than let them be taken.

Jazz fell silent, their play of words over; reputation sustained, status quo upheld.  Accusing glances turned Prowl’s way; resentment, horror, anger, useless frequencies permeating the air, making it thick with tension.  They couldn't see the bigger picture, the long-term ramifications of every act.  They weren't programmed to make the tough calls.  They just couldn’t take it like he could.

"Sir—?" the mech at the terminal said, his face unreadable behind his mask.

"Blow it."

And the screen went briefly, blindingly white.

“Sweep the area for survivors.  I want this sector scrubbed.”  Prowl bowed his head back to his terminal.  Around him, in degrees, the others did the same.

These were, of course, acceptable losses.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcomed.


End file.
